Maybe he’ll look back on this time years from now and remember when it was all he could do. Morning, noon, and night. When the words flowed and the ideas came and the work fulfilled.
Maybe he’ll look back with fondness, remembering all the hours that were spent doing what he loved. Maybe he’ll look back and long for another time of such compression, of such passion, of such determination.
Maybe he’ll look back with regret, remembering a hunger he can’t taste anymore. Maybe he’ll look back and long for another rash of such intensity, of such longing, of such diligence.
Maybe he’ll look back with amazement, remembering the fog of uncertainly that hovered over every day. Maybe he’ll look back with thankfulness that he got through, that he survived, that he succeeded, that he found the shore.
When you’re in the whirlwind, in the fog, in the raging storm, it’s easy to focus on the day-to-day. The inches in front of you.
But if God grants another decade, I wonder what these inches will amount to.
Such plans and such progress. But sometimes I wonder if it’s all in my mind. If I’m spinning circles in a vast ocean.
Then again, sometimes I wonder if I’ve finally arrived, and the fog is going to clear, and the new land will be just in front of me.
Such is the journey.
Labels: journey, on writing